ARIZONA SOUTH

Once upon a time in the desert of Southern Arizona in the Gila and Salt River valleys lived for a long time Indians which today are called the Hohokam a Pima word meaning the Ancient Ones or those who were here and gone. No one knows where they came from or where they went. It was about 1400 when they just walked out into thin air.

What little is known of them today is learned from their trash heaps, of which there are many around the state, mostly near Phoenix, Globe, Casa Grande, Tucson and San Pedro River Valley. Many interesting telltales of these peoples have been found.

When you see the delightful designs they put on their pottery, it is easy to guess that they were fun-loving people who expressed themselves freely and easily. Every little piece found in their trash heaps is decorated and it looks as though they enjoyed doing it.

They were clever craftsmen as well. Their ability to carve, etch and inlay turquoise on sea shells is remarkable. Etching was developed here by the Hohokam hundreds of years before it was known in Europe.

It is interesting to find that they traveled on foot, in all directions, and to far distant places, either to trade or on social visits.

Much has been written about them. Yet very little is known. Many of their mounds are yet to be touched. Mother Earth holds and guards the secret of these long, long-gone Arizona Indians. Who knows what fascinating revelations someone may someday uncover?

FANTASY SUNFLOWER DANCE

I saw a Hohokam snake - and another, and another. They swiftly disappeared in the desert. Awhile later I was startled by a fluttering sound from a nearby greasewood bush. Hohokam mother quail had been frightened from their nesting. I kept on daydreaming and poking with my stick. My eyes were constantly on the ground. I was trying very hard to picture in my mind the Hohokam. I was sure that I could if I tried hard enough. The sun was blazing down. When suddenly I saw five beautiful horned toads, sunning themselves in the sand. I picked one up and held it in my hand. I stroked its little head. Soon he closed his eyes. He was unafraid. As I stooped to lay him on the ground, by instinct I looked skyward. The light of the strong Arizona sun had been diffused. The sky possessed the quality of a dreamlike water color. I heard a faint faraway sound that seemed to blend with the sky. I don't know how long I remained there. I began to dig at the earth where the sound seemed to be. The more I dug the stranger the tonal quality, the more mellow and golden the tone. Finally it was clear and rich. And there I had uncovered a piece of pottery. The sound seemed to be coming from it. I picked it up. I was almost afraid. Should I throw the piece and run? But I couldn't do that. I was held by magnetism. Very cautiously and slowly, very slowly I turned it over in the palm of my hand. Lo and behold, whom should I see on the other side but my very good friend for whom I had so long searched. The Hohokam Flute Player. He kept on playing. As he played, I heard joyful voices and muted voices. And this is what I saw. A Hohokam man holding a huge sunflower. Men and women in pairs were dancing toward him. Music-Sunflowers - Dancing. It was beautiful to see. As they danced along, I followed.

One day in August I was walking in the desert at Snake Town. The day was one of those hot days. I like desert heat. It makes for wondering. When you live in the desert a long time you get a feeling of mystery, of untold tales, of Indians, pioneers, and gold. Though the desert is hard, at times it has great beauty and gentleness. It is a quiet and lonely place. But a good place to find out for yourself what is important and what is not important, evaluate the proportions of things.As I walked along, poking here and there with a stick, The dancers approached a gathering of people. And there was a rush around some men painted white with black stripes. They were moving slowly in time to a heavy thumping. It came from a nearby basket drum, which had been made simply by putting an inverted basket over a hole in the ground.I looked up into the sky. The clouds were many

colors floating swiftly. The whole atmosphere was possessed. Through force of habit I pulled out my watch. But just then the flute player began to play. The face of my watch was blank. His music had enchanted me. I was timeless. The people were timeless. Everything was timeless.

Soon the dance of the Yucca began. It was a stately dance with sharp and measured rhythms. The people watched quietly until the air was rent with a terrible yelping and yowling. The people quickly moved away.

COYOTE DANCE

I looked around and there was an old man with a cane. His face was very wrinkled. He smiled with his eyes. His hair was coarse and shiny. He put both hands on his cane, and said nothing. I said nothing. Then, beckoning to me, he slowly followed the people. I kept close to him. The yelping and yowling I knew for coyote cries. The evil ones they are usually called. The old man would know what to do. He walked to the top of a little knoll and there below wild music accompanied a leaping confusion of dancers. I could see that it was a coyote dance. As the sky darkened suddenly there was quiet-ness, scarcely a breath of sound. I looked curiously about, and on a distant ridge of the mountains I saw a line of men each carrying a basket. It looked as though they were traders returning. I had seen them before, on pieces of Hohokam pottery. I saw another flute player leading them. I was puzzled for a while because he looked exactly like the one in my hand. Behind this line I saw a parade of birds, horned toads, and snakes. They were stylized just as they appear in the pottery designs. All at once, the knoll where I was standing with the old man was com-pletely surrounded by fires.

DANCE OF DEATH

The old man with the cane stood silently. I quickly jumped away. Not too soon for me. I was glad to be back among the people. By then, the sky was completely dark. Heavy low voices were murmuring. Indians were smoking. There was a smell of greasewood, mesquite wood burning. It had a nostalgic odor. The atmosphere seemed filled. The whole world was Indian from the smell to the silence. It was night a dark night with grey clouds Hanging low. So low one could almost touch them. It was like a black and white palette knife painting. Unlike a painting, though, it had movement. There was sadness in every posture. The women with long hair falling over their faces were sorrow itself. The whole spectacle was dramatic. My eyes were wide open, trying to see everything. The old man with the cane came creeping close to me. In a very tired wheezing whisper which was barely audible, like a voice coming from a vague past, he said, "When one of ours dies we light big fires and dance." As his voice dropped, the flute in tune with his voice played weird whole steps three-toned notes that were almost maddening. As he played, figure after figure, painted in grey, brown, and black, danced into the flames. The Flute Player played. The women with long hair moaned. All was strange and hypnotizing. And so before my very eyes I saw the Hohokam dance again.

DESERT INDIANS

Many times during the year unusual colorful and most interesting events take place at the Papago Reserva-tion and in the two Yaqui Villages of Pascua and Barrio Libre. The Papagos have a Saguaro Harvest Festival All Souls Day Fiesta of San Xavier Rodeo and Fair. The Yaqui have a Santa Cruz Fiesta and Easter Ceremony. There are other events too which sometimes the Yaqui and Papago celebrate together. Both Papago and Yaqui, though extremely different in temperament and ideals, live not only a modern life but also their ancient one very easily for their ceremonies they shed our reckless mechanical unreal way of life for their ancestral way and to see them in their ceremonial regalia unwinds my mind and takes it to a long gone age very different but real-I have tried to capture impressions of what I have seen of the Papago and Yaqui Indians "Arizona South."

When I see a Saguaro I think of the Papago The origin of both a mystery I like to paint them together To me the Papago are the Saguaro Indians. The Yaqui remind me of wild run-away horses. When I think of the Yaqui I think of their sharp, quick, energetic movements: the wild ones wishing always to be free.

PAPAGO HARVEST

I was in the middle of the desert in August - The Papago were picking the Saguaro fruit, one of their important sources of sustenance for ages past At high noon they went to their camp for relaxation - The desert was hot and dry - I was tired, the Indians were not tired -The desert was their home, they were well adapted to it.

PAPAGO TAKA GAME

Taka is an ancient Papago sport resembling field hockey It is lots of fun, played by the women of one village against those of another. Everyone seems to get into the game.

PAPAGO FAIR AND RODEO

On the Papago reservation at Sells, Arizona the Indians have an annual fair and rodeo. The fair is fine. The rodeo is a riot usually the announcer steals the show with his entertaining descriptions, as though it were a football game, a dog show and a rodeo, scrambled.

UTA-WAH-PAW-TAHM DANCE

The Uta-Wah-Paw-Tahm Dance is a Papago ceremonial rain dance. It creates a terrific impact of surging solid rhythm spiritual as well as earth bound.

PASCUA VILLAGE

In the middle of our modern civilization in Tucson we have two Yaqui villages Here Indians live in the same manner as they always have little primitive adobe huts, streets unpaved, wells with buckets, and the invariable garden with its gay flowers The village leaves a lasting impression of timelessness for a painting of ancient beauty.

LOS YAQUIS

The village has the quality of the desert - The Yaqui have the quality of the village. It is ageless-When I hear the Yaqui flute player I begin to have the feeling of the Yaqui-It is the spirit of the desert - It is the spirit of the Yaqui and through it one gets the same mystical strange feeling of being in tune with the desert.

WILD CHRISTIANITY

The most spectacular event of the Yaqui village is their Easter Ceremony. This is as complicated as the Bible-It takes a long time to live and understand it. All that I can hope to get is a flimsy impression an everlasting quick impact of a half Christian-half Pagan Easter. It has much color - It is spiritual-dynamic and real. Though it may seem wild, in reality it is a pure religion.

ABOUT THE SANTA CATALINAS

For almost twenty years I have known the Santa Catalina Mountains. These mountains take their name from a holy woman of Mexico. The early Spaniards called them La Iglesia - the church - because of one cathedrallike formation which is seen from Tucson near the center of the range.

I have watched these mountains almost every day, fascinated by their changing moods. At times they are sharp and definite, with every fold and crevice starkly shown in sunlight. At other times, with changing cloud shadows they take on a flat cardboard look, a temporary background for a desert stage scene. Then again, they become dramatic: sometimes with a feeling of brooding softness; sometimes hard and strong, when all the earth forces that have created them come together at once as if to explode. From time to time through the darkened sky shines one dazzling sun ray which surrounds La Iglesia with mysterious light.

As I watch the Santa Catalinas, all the tales I have heard about them come back to me. Tales about Indians - their trails and villages; about gold, and buried treasures. Some of these tales I know are true. For I myself have seen many things which prove them: abandoned village sites, mines and diggings, leaving evidence that at one time there was lively activity there.

EL CUENTO

Tales by the campfire are the haunting tales. It was late afternoon. Trinidad, a Mexican many years old, who speaks no English, was my prospecting partner. Tired and hungry from walking all day, we came to the highest peak of the Santa Catalinas. The Arizona sunset was spreading across the sky, beginning to burst into brilliant colors. Quietly I watched because it was a thing of the moment and mine for the watching. Far below me the lights of Tucson flickered on, making an abstract pattern of brightness. Trinidad was preparing supper. He had built a fire. Around it he slanted some rocks to heat. When the rocks were hot he put meat on them to cook. The coffee pot was boiling. It was a fine smell for a hungry man. Soon we were eating. Trinidad turned to me and said, "A meal can only taste this good up here." Watching the deepening night, we each rolled a cigarette as we relaxed after the good meal. "Isn't this called the Cathedral of the Santa Catalinas?" I asked. "We are right in it," he answered. "But you know" he spoke slowly, remembering the past. "One time there was a stone mission near here or at least, so I've been told. My father heard it from his father and he told me about it. It was a long time ago. Probably more than a hundred years ago. In those days the Apaches roamed all over these mountains. Raiding was their way of life."

Trinidad, as he rolled a cigarette, had a faraway look in his eyes. He said, "As I recall the story, a small group of Mexicans from Sonora were living down at Sopori. Because of the Apache raids, they were forced to leave to find a more secure home, settling near the San Pedro. They lived there safely but not for long. Again they were forced to move to escape the Apaches. This time they crossed the Santa Catalinas. Beyond the crest they found a fertile canyon running to the north. It was well situated for protection from invaders. This they hoped was the end of their roaming. The landscape before them was wide and beautiful. A stream ran near by. My father said it was called O-ku-ko, though most likely they called it something else. The land was fertile. The flowers and the fruit were bright with colors. The people themselves were colorfully dressed and moved like flowers about the village. Then they built a mission with their hands. It took them a long time. Everyone helped. Even the little children brought small stones to set between the larger ones. It was a fine mission. Maybe not as big as some. But it was rocky, like the mountains. It belonged to them. It was a happy time when the mission was finished. The children gathered flowers to decorate it-huge flowers, fantastic flowers." And again, to make sure that I had heard, Trinidad said, "Huge flowers as big as a wheel." He held out his arms to show me.

"There was a big celebration," Trinidad said. "All of the people were thankful for their new home and proud of their mission. Everyone had worked hard and everyone took part in the celebration. They had plenty of food. For days ahead the women had been grinding scarlet chilis. They laughed and gossiped as they patted tortillas, wrapped them in white cloths and put them aside. The men hunted, bringing deer and mountain sheep for the feast. The children gathered wild flowers for the altar. There was dancing and singing to the music of guitars. There were quiet prayers in the mission. It was the first fiesta they had had for years and they made the most of it."

"The people loved the mission. They had many celebrations there. One of the ones they liked the best was at Christmas time. They called it Las Posadas. All of the children took part in it. Carrying candles, they walked from house to house all through the village, singing as they walked. At each house they stopped to ask for lodging. But the answer was always, 'No, there is no room. You cannot stay here.' It was their story of Mary and Joseph, who too could not find a room, on the first Christmas. The little girls in their long white dresses were starry-eyed, and lovely to see in the flickering candle light."

I woke up from a half dream. For as Trinidad talked I had seen all these things in the campfire. "Where is this village and what happened to the people and their mission?"

"It was over there," he said, pointing vaguely into the night. "I can not tell exactly, my father didn't know. But that was before the earthquake. Maybe the mountains took back their own."

As the fire died down, I drifted into sleep. These people thronged about me: working their fields, building their mission. Three times they had moved. The third time they found their home in the shadow of the Catalinas. Then all disappeared. It seemed to me that in some way the great Cathedral Rock was theirs, a memorial to them. Often as I watch the changing moods of the Santa Catalinas I wonder about the many tales I have heard. Some I know are true.